


Adjustments

by Lyssandra_Med



Series: One-Shot [79]
Category: Alien Quadrilogy (Movies), Alien: Resurrection (1997)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:22:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27191012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyssandra_Med/pseuds/Lyssandra_Med
Summary: Life is repetitive aboard theBetty, not that Ripley can complain. She has Call, the crew, and a steady stream of income delivered on the back of dishonest work.Until something sparks, far in the darkness of space, and the nightmares return to life.
Relationships: Annalee Call/Ellen Ripley
Series: One-Shot [79]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1429282
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	Adjustments

**Author's Note:**

> Unedited, un-beta'd  
> Sorry for obvious mistakes

The persistent night-terrors were the worst of the lingering effects picked up from her time aboard the _Auriga._

 _Most_ of them started bloody and dark, and _most_ she could discern as being what they were; _nightmares._ Dark and horrid things that built up within her mind, grabbing at her skin. She learned rather quickly that it was best to identify them as what they were and try to ride it through to wakefulness and light. She could bring a few of them to an early end, usually the ones that opened with death or disease, but others weren’t so simple. Others, - _rather unfortunately_ \- like the ones that started out bright and shiny, were _harder._ The ones that had her starting off _happy_ were the worst, the hardest for her to escape from.

They would begin in gentle tones and words, a looping record of softened memories that were pulled from Ellen’s DNA, from wherever it slept within the xenomorph’s. Sometimes it was a replay of her day aboard the _Betty,_ her life much simpler now but no less exciting for its differences. But as the dream continued on the cascade of inconsistencies built up, wandering friendly halls as they mutated in subtle ways. 

Things were just _slightly_ out of place, in these wandering dreams. There would be a hallway that continued on for too long, terminating where she knew it couldn’t. Her perches would be shuffled around, the engine bay too slanted for her to find a proper footing. Call wouldn’t look at her, or sometimes she would look too hard.

 _Mild_ differences. Little and insignificant, _small,_ but the longer that they went on, the worse they would become. 

Eventually she would try to speak out, try to reach for Call and explain that she needn’t be afraid, or ask her why she was looking at her like _that._

Like she was _different._

But then nothing would come out of her throat, no words, no soothing explanations. Only a drawn-out hiss, the sound far too tight within her throat, chest burning with the effort to _explain,_ face grimacing in pain. She couldn’t speak, she couldn’t talk, she couldn’t make herself be _known_ or _understood._

There was an impassable barrier, a wall between what she was - _Human, Ellen, Mother and Surrogate_ \- and what she _is._

Sometimes, in those dreams, she sheds her skin to reveal blackened carapace and she cannot do anything except stare at herself and wish for an easy death.

In the dreams that didn’t involve a change of form, she would fall down onto the catwalks and bang her knees harshly against the cold metal of _Betty’s_ interior. The shielding of her knees, the metal woven into the fabric, wasn’t enough to stop the stinging pain.

But it was always overridden by the sudden _hurt_ of clawed hands tearing at her throat.

She could feel the flesh being scoured away as she did so, the screaming hiss becoming louder and louder as acid dripped to the walkway, skin peeling and dripping. The hiss would rise in volume, in agitation, as she tore herself to pieces.

In those dreams she would watch as Call turned away, looking lost and broken. In those dreams the fear and betrayal were etched into her features, and Ripley cried.

\---

The nightmares all ended, eventually.

She would awaken to a world awash with colours she couldn’t understand, couldn’t explain even if she’d wanted to. 

She’d wanted to, once. Told Call about the differences and watched as the auton smiled, bringing familiarity to the dissonance. 

There was too much saturation bleeding in from everywhere despite the time of night - _or perhaps day, the crew all relied on simple, divisible hours, falling asleep when they were exhausted. Nothing was done or acted upon, nothing_ ** _rigged_ **_to follow baseline genetics, and the darkness of space was an everlasting night_ \- and all of it too thin to properly categorize. There were hues and shifting pallets that no human could ever hope to imagine, let alone see, and the brilliance of it all was what ended up frightening the more human parts of her that remained.

If she were honest, most of it frightened it.

The implications of those moments were unavoidable, the hurt not something she could soothe. She was lost to what she _was;_ becoming _different,_ or at least thrashing beneath the blanketing waver of otherness. Her mind was weak at the beginning but as the nightmares wore on, she adjusted.

She had _always_ adjusted.

A parasite brought on board? Adjusted.

Waking from sleep, the world turning endlessly while she was under? Adjusted.

Waking _again_ from sleep, only this time to find out that her companions were gone, that she’d been _infected?_ Adjusted.

Waking _once more_ from sleep, this time with the understanding that she was _hybridized,_ _resurrected,_ and _different?_

Adjusted.

She always adjusted. Maybe that was why she’d become part of _them._ They always adapted, always sought to overcome. Maybe they were meant for one another.

But then the colours would fade back to darkness except where Call had strung up a few thin strips of lights, their soft glow illuminating the farthest corner of the cabin. Ripley would stare at those lights, that pinprick, hold onto it within her mind as Call pulled tighter, pulled closer.

Ripley needed that. Needed the warmth that Call brought her, and their shared bunk is no different. Whenever the auton would sleep her skin would flush with texture and heat, a whirring power thrumming within her manipulated veins. It was a rolling immutability that called gently to Ripley’s heart, a constant source of companionship and closeness that she hadn’t dreamt of having. Call just _is,_ and the steady presence is a grounding effect much better suited to keeping her thoughts in line with _humanity,_ or whatever that could be called. With slow movements she would lean in, wrap the auton within her gangly arms and press soft lips to Call’s temple.

The action meant her nose would be surrounded by calming scents; the tangy sweetness that refused to fade away, some hidden spice that drew her further into Call’s space.

Call was, for the most part, one of the heaviest sleepers that Ripley had ever met. Her inability to truly _sleep_ is what affords her that aspect, or so Ripley has come to believe. She’ll work long hours, no sign of true exhaustion on her face, and then shut down to recuperate. She needed to let programs run that would have otherwise interfered with her daily activities, and Ripley had come to accept it early on. This was just one little facet of their budding relationship. She understood it as she understood herself, unable to sleep most nights and plagued by nightmares when she did. Her whole body would ache with exhaustion, and then Call would simply drag her back to the bunk, throw her down into the sheets, and use two fingers to fuck her senseless enough to pass out.

But Call is slightly different.

She might have been a heavy sleeper but she wasn’t immovable. There was still some portion of the auton that remained awake even while her body lay heavy, subsystems that were built in to afford her a similarity to humanity. She still breathed throughout the night, despite having no need for respiration. She still moved and settled, despite not needing that sort of comfort. One of the few things that she had taken too after more than a few nights spent waking to a crying Ripley was _comfort._ Call would hug Ripley tight, pull her back, drag the much larger woman until she was effectively lying atop her and refusing to let go, or move.

In those moments Ripley felt safe enough to slip off, warm and tired, relieved beyond reason.

In those moments she could sleep, and dream of better things.

\---

The _Betty_ was, for better or worse, changed. Stop by stop, station by station, the ship and her crew were fitted into new roles, new responsibilities. Its hard shell was cold and unyielding, but within it there was a distortion that allowed something new to flourish.

Or, if not exactly _flourish,_ they were at least given space to sprout up and potentially grow.

Johner made it clear from the outset that he had plans for the recreation spaces, new equipment that he could fill it with. He bought all his toys with money earned on their odd jobs and supplemented it with whatever he managed to steal. For the moment that had meant a new benchpress, all new weights, barbells and long rods made from stainless steel. He took the lead on replacing everything inside that he could, form the shitty mess table to the floors. It became a warm space after he was through, heated - _as he said,_ **_‘To keep my muscles limber,’_ ** _even though Ripley knew it was really just a code for not wanting to remember the pervasive chill of the Auriga_ \- and _clean_ for the first time in what seemed like forever. Ripley refrained from comment on it, knowing that to do so would be to draw out an argument she didn’t want to have, but she _did_ invade it, time and time again.

Johner’s first challenge to her was when she stomped around his lair was to scoff and brush her off. After that he made jabs that needled her more human parts, but wouldn’t actively disturb her. Then he continued, driving up the rhetoric until eventually the monster within her head had decided enough was enough, it wanted to _dominate_ and put him in his place. Ripley had pushed her way through the desire to beat him into a pulp, and instead she’d settled on something else. _It_ wanted Johner to acknowledge that she was the predator here, the strongest of them all, and so she’d obliged out of petty spite.

She made sure to stick to methods of humiliation that would do no more than bruise his fragile ego, aware that a death on the ship might make Call browbeat her with mechanical morality.

The weight racked up on the bar and Call took to attending her with patience and poise, an easy smile playing at her lips while Johner’s frown had grown. Slab after slab of metal had been loaded onto that bar until eventually Johner was reduced to a pale stack of meat. His mouth had turned slack - _and that had been a rare occurrence for sure, one that Ripley desperately filed away for further humour_ \- and he’d walked away, hands in the air and the swagger lost from his step.

All of Christie’s spaces were equally Johner’s, and vice versa, plus a little seat at Vriess’s side in the cockpit. He remained just as Ripley had gotten to know him; just Christie, stable and rather imposing - _for a human_ \- while still remaining perfectly polite enough despite everything that had happened to them.

Vriess’s spaces were everywhere and nowhere. He owned the cockpit, the engine bay, all the little nooks and crannies where complicated machinery hummed and clicked, all of it within his purview, all of it his domain. Call was the only one to intrude upon him with regularity, though Christie was a close second. Her presence was more due to the role she’d fallen into rather than a desire to supplant or annoy him, and he’d taken to making her an apprentice with enough gusto to make Call’s nervous energy dissipate into sublime happiness.

Call’s happiness was Ripley’s, and when she saw the auton toiling away with Vriess at her side, she’d smiled. As it became regular it became just another part of life aboard the _Betty,_ and soon enough it was an easy bet that if Call wasn’t with Ripley she was with Vriess, or stuck somewhere small that he couldn’t reach.

Vriess was also kind enough to leave Ripley alone, and otherwise conversed goodnaturedly with her whenever avoidance couldn’t be had. Being stuck in the same space for an extended period of time was still tense but it didn’t set her teeth on edge like it did with Johner, or spark images of _intimidation_ or _domination_ like it did with Christie when he decided to show off. Vriess had nothing against her for being what she was, and she liked it like that.

Less of a chance of her biting someone’s head off.

The move to label Vriess as the captain was quick and relatively painless. His objections hadn’t amounted to very much, despite the vehemence he’d spoken them with. None of the arguments were enough to turn anyone else’s opinion.

Christie plainly told them that he’d be terrible as their leader, despite his status as Elgyn’s first-mate. He was a follower more than a leader, and a damned good one at that. Johner was discounted before he’d even been able to speak up in his favour, the group looking at one another and then deciding - _almost as if they were of one mind, one_ ** _hive_ ** \- that Johner would be more likely to get them all killed rather than rich. He’d thrown up his hands and walked back to his weights and his guns, a pout on his face and toothless barbs dripping from his lips.

Call had been the next thought, but she’d explained her inability to lead them with a practical - _and efficient_ \- argument. She would help them as much as she could, but her own programming, her individuality, the stamp that said she’d been _made,_ wasn’t enough to grant her that position. If anything she was more likely to shuffle them off to the middle of nowhere, somewhere safe, somewhere they couldn’t harm anyone else. She simply wasn’t the sort of person to conspire in dark bars, seedy back-alleys, or bribe officials to look the other way when they left with more than they’d bought.

When the talk had turned to Ripley she’d remained stoic and silent, her claws rapping against the table and teeth gleaming. No one wanted a killing machine with a too-short temper as their leader, least of all the killing machine itself.

She knew what her decisions would all lead to, and Call’s disillusioned face wasn’t something she was eager to ever see.

So it was that Vriess was chosen, and he seemed to come to a decision on their new role within the universe rather quickly. It wasn’t too long into their next burn to a backwater station that he’d called them all up and laid out one rule, nothing else that would ever top it.

“No more smuggling anything living.”

It was just a few words but they’d all agreed, even Johner. The emotion colouring their voices as they’d assented to Vriess’s mandate was open and dripping, strong and heartfelt. There would be no more instances of shuffling bodies off to dark corners, no more fuel dripped onto a conflagration they weren’t equipped to douse.

“So how’m I supposed to get the cred for a warm fuck?” Johner had asked them, voice riddled with sarcasm and a rough smile on his face.

\---

The answer to Johner’s question turned out to be theft, pure and simple. On the whole it seemed to work out well, lining their pockets and keeping them one step away from starvation or a slow death where they froze in the vast emptiness of space.

They easily slipped into stations where no one would ever question their presence, their appearance - _or disappearance_ \- unremarkable. Call became the go-to for contact with whatever AI’s controlled the salvage systems, manufacturing depots, resource gathering drones, and bean-counters. From there it was a simple matter of swooping in to collect their ill-gotten goods before anyone could muster some sort of resistance.

No one ever did, and those that _tried_ only ended up worse for wear.

Christie was a deadly force of nature now that he wasn’t confined with the _Auriga’s_ tight interiors, or stuck with carting Vriess upon his back. Johner was raw intimidation bound up in human form - _or mostly human, as Ripley loved to tease, more muscle than man_ \- and willing to do whatever was necessary to get a job done. Ripley was just _Ripley,_ madness unleashed. She could still pilot them up and away whenever Vriess was needed elsewhere, but her most important part in their heists was just being unassuming until such a time as she was needed to turn those assumptions on their head.

She was power and extravagance. The outfit gifted to her by the scientists of the _Auriga_ had been switched out for loose-fitting cargo pants and a sleeveless shirt just a little too large, grey and patchy with oil-strains and blood. She was too slim from having lived in space, and carted massive containers nearly a quarter-ton in weight as if they weighed nothing at all.

No one would fuck with her.

If walking around like she owned whatever space she was in wasn’t enough to intimidate their enemies, she’d fight. Paint the walls red. She left the hard work to the boys but wasn’t afraid of getting her hands dirty, wasn’t shy about letting her inner monster out to play. When guns were frowned upon - _bullets piercing hulls and letting the vacuum of space in wasn’t exactly her preferred way to go_ \- she was there to take lumps and give them out in equal measure. She could let her little hive take care of whatever they could, and Call would never begrudge her for protecting them.

Ripley liked that.

Liked the way Call just smiled and shrugged, or leaned into her hips when they were pressed against one another. They hadn’t spoken about any labels, but they didn’t really need to. The words to explain what they were to one another were wasted, and time was better spent with her tongue twisting around Call’s, their limits nearing, nails scratching pale-white lines that wept.

There was no need for words, but Call was fine with a luxuriating hiss.

Life turned, as improbable to imagine as that was.

\---

The worlds and spaces surrounding them always changed, always moved, always shifted to something new and different.

But the nightmares remained a constant source of anxiety. 

The night that Call managed to break her way through an archaic lock - _something deep, something so hard to crack through that she’d nearly burned to touch, processors and wiring all heated to the extreme as she fought to crack open a dying AI that had been cobbled together from old military hardware, its memory still filled with the images of a nascent Company_ \- and swipe up ream after ream of documentation the USM had wanted to be buried was the night of Ripley’s worst nightmare since she’d taken to sleeping in Call’s bed. The placid stillness had been shattered, and the resulting aftermath had left her at turns wanting to murder and wanting to coddle, unstable in ways she hadn’t been since she’d woken up from death.

They - _her children, her ancestors, her progenitors_ \- weren’t _gone._ Or rather there existed the faintest possibility that they might not be _entirely_ gone.

They could still be out there somewhere, far away amidst the stars. Old recordings had painted a picture of a Company spread far too thin. It was young still, a behemoth but not yet all-encompassing. Parts of it had disappeared against the furthest edges of known space, and it was those voids that Call had been interested in.

Little spots where everything pointed to _something_ happening, but _nothing_ ever coming of it.

It was just a whisper of _them._

A whisper with all the strength of a shout.

That night had left Ripley locked away within her skull. She had been running, sprinting, vertigo flowing from her brainstem and breath laboured, muscles _burning._ There had been things behind her in that dream, things that screeched and roared as she made her way through twists and turns. Things that had hissed at her, things that said _‘We know who you ware, and we know you understand us.’_

Their heavy bodies had thunked against the walls and floors as they jumped and moved, crawling steadily along the ceiling and then dropping to the floor, scratching at grey metal. They had been angry at her, seeking revenge of some sort. They knew _who_ she was, they’d always known, and they knew she had chosen to abandon them aboard the _Auriga._ They knew that she could feel their pain, their hurt, the helplessness of their situation, and they knew she hadn’t cared.

Or thought they knew. Reality had been different. It wasn’t that she hadn’t cared, but that she’d cared too much.

The walls had been falling down around her body, the sterile metal changing into something much darker, something that had ribs and nodules, hiding spaces to keep monsters in the dark. Her feet had slipped as she’d followed its curving route, and she’d cursed herself for ever choosing to go without boots. Her skin - _so human_ \- was losing its grip against the slippery resin they built with, the terrain much better suited to claws and splayed out toes.

There were sounds - _echoing, building, burbling with_ ** _need_ ** \- that meant her pursuers were catching up, a cacophony that rose with her heart-

And then there had been nothing.

No sound.

Just _silence._

In the dream she had turned back, her heart beating madly within the confines of her chest, beating twice for the life she held within herself, pounding, _pounding,_ **_pounding._ **

She couldn’t focus on anything else, couldn’t hear anything at all. There was just the oddly persistent ringing of her blood against her ears. The sight of her brethren - _or were they children?_ \- writhing where they were crouched, their bodies all lithe and sharp, their tails arcing and weaving across the floor as they debated attack or retreat. Their jaws were open and dripping, their inner mouths exposed, and clawed hands had stretched out in an attempt to capture her, to caress.

But then the dream had broken, and she’d screamed.

\---

When she awoke Call had been ready, aware of the nightmare and moving to combat it. She’d held Ripley tight, pressed warm kisses, soft lips, acceptance - _if not love_ \- into her hair, her cheeks and nose. The auton reached everywhere she could, incessant and unwilling to deny Ripley the comfort she needed. Pressed tightly against one another was a perfect way to steady her heartbeat, and Ripley had taken comfort in the feel of Call nearly burning. Her own body was colder than humans, her more modified skin easily accepting of the warmth. The air between them had stung her nose with its dampness, the rank putrefaction of frightened sweat, and slowly it had dissipated.

Slowly, patiently, she released.

It was a nightmare that could have been much tamer than the others. It lacked death, it lacked specifics. 

Yet still she felt it stronger than the others.

\---

Vriess might have been the captain of the _Betty,_ but when Call and Ripley cornered him the next morning he’d acquiesced to their demands with relative swiftness. 

He was most willing.

Christie and Johner were the last to be convinced, but the both of them had ended up shrugging away the oddity of it. They’d both much rather be elsewhere, somewhere safe, but after having come so far it seemed farcical to just give up.

Neither one of them would admit to a feeling of camaraderie and friendship - _in whatever form that took, even if it was simply refraining from killing someone over a simple slight, or a mistake_ \- between the old crew members. Neither one of them would _admit_ anything. But they wanted someone to be punished, someone to try their anger on. 

The simple promise of a large sum of money was also a bright incentive to the duo. They’d be given free rein to whatever they could tear out, whatever wasn’t bolted down. Proper leeway to purge the stations of whatever they could carry away.

The burn out towards the nearest facility that Call had identified was dark and long, and Ripley settled easily into her bunk. Call tucked herself against her side, and the both of them remained silent, ready for - _but wary of_ \- whatever would come next.


End file.
